Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was always raining in London. Or so I had heard. This was my first trip, and the sound of balls of water bursting on the cobblestone streets reminded me of something else.

The click of my Welrod Pistol.

I stepped out from underneath the awning of a pawn shop and joined the ragged cluster of businessmen headed to lunch, my shoes tapping along with theirs and mingling with the pattering rain in an incessant melody of gun clicks. Above the buildings of the city, the sky was grey and foggy — another famous characteristic of the British Capital. I wondered if any other city was so predictable, and why I felt strangely unprepared for the heaviness of the setting.

It was different being here in person. Hours of researching and scouting around the nooks and crannies of London on Google Earth just didn’t give you quite the same vibe as physically walking through them. All the same, my prep work had been extremely accurate, and not at all in vain. Every single building on that street, every single lifeless second-story window, every single odd alley leading to ‘nowhere’; all of
these had revealed their secrets to me a year and more ago. I knew where every path was headed. I knew what every room held. I knew the fastest and longest and most meandrous routes to and from any shop anywhere in the vicinity of St. James Street. I knew it all.

All except the identity of the shadow that seemed to have cast itself over me. I could place no name, no shape, no source to that. I glanced over my shoulder and began to cross from one side of the street to the
other. I collided with a stern young man ‘accidentally’, and mumbled a quick apology. He glared down at me for a second, then said in a clipped British accent. “Don’t mention it.” We both hustled across the street, and I was careful not to collide with any of the other pedestrians in the process. It never did to bring any extra attention to yourself – only enough so everybody could glance your way, identify you as the average chap on St. James Street, and forget about you.

I knew from experience that were I to scuttle stealthily around with my head ducked, not speaking to anyone or interacting with anything, I would instantly be noticed.

Acting according to those very principles, I paused to stare through the windows of one of the many shops that lined the street. It was rare that I ever had the ability to make use of these windows, but I fondled a deep appreciation for them. They were probably the most useful tool I currently had at my disposal. I need only to glance at their reflection to observe everybody passing behind me. I did so now, mentally ticking off the seconds as I did so.

One.

Two.

Three.

The man I had jostled now passed by, and I glanced down quickly to avoid meeting his gaze in the window’s reflection. As I did so my attention was drawn to what lay inside the shop. The recognition of what was there immediately drew unwanted pangs of nostalgia. The shop sold an assortment of goods; the one which had caught my eye was a simple book. It wasn’t the cover that had attracted my attention. It was the title. It was the title of a book I had read many, many years ago.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich, by Leo Tolstoy.

I was lying in bed, reading. On the other side of the room my brother was fast asleep, oblivious to the light of my flashlight, and completely unaware of the agony in my mind. As the fatally flawed protagonist of the story grew nearer and nearer to death, the horror of the situation and the blunt force with which Tolstoy portrayed his entrance into the death-throes gnawed and tore at my soul. As the story reached its climax, I slammed the book shut and threw it against the wall. I never knew if that action woke up my brother or not; my face was buried under a pillow.

I shook my head, angry at myself for allowing the memory to come. That part of my life was gone forever. Death was no longer a phantom terror — It was my trade.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-One.

I swore under my breath and turned violently away, wishing I had never stopped at this shop. My composure was fast slipping in this morose town.

As I removed myself from the distraction, I realized with some surprise that I was walking too fast. Rarely ever had I been so affected by any demons from my past. Making an enormous effort to regain control of myself, I adjusted my gait slightly, placing myself once more is the mold of the stereotypical British businessman. A quick glance at my watch, a casual shrug of my backpack — there was nothing to distinguish me from any of the other passersby.

I continued walking for a couple more blocks, then turned into a coffee shop. This was not part of the plan, but I was a master at improvisation. After I had seen seven others step into similar shops, I decided that it was worth me doing so as well. I wanted to blend in, but I also felt like I needed to stop and recover my confidence before proceeding. There was, after all, a lot of money on the line.

Entering the small room, the first thing that struck me was how cold it was outside. The warmth of the café was in stark contrast to the brisk temperatures of the outdoors. The second thing that struck me was the smell of coffee; a powerful, homely scent which threw my mind back against its will again.

We were at the airport terminal, engaged in a heated discussion. I lost my temper, throwing a cup of scalding black liquid at her and storming away from the plane. I never looked back, certain that she never had. But, of course, there was no way of me knowing; I never checked.

I froze in the middle of the doorway, overrun by memories. I had stopped drinking coffee years ago.

Why did I come here? Why tempt fate?

“Sir?” The voice broke into my consciousness like a slap in the face. “Anything I can get you?” For a moment I stared, the striking resemblance between her and the woman from my nightmares immobilizing me. I tried to push down all the thoughts which had intruded, shoving them in the farthest corner of my mind and attempting to lock the door, but one still slipped out.

Is this the price of death? The power of my memories was overwhelming. I was seeing things I hadn’t seen in years – decades. The doctors said I had lost it; but little did they know. I had wanted to lose it, sure. But for some reason today, of all days, it was coming back. Resisting the urge to turn and walk back out the door, I flashed an artificial smile.

“Sorry, just a little dizzy. Needed to pause and catch my breath.”

Dizzy! Why oh why was I going there?

The lights blurred in my windshield, a confusing array of colors. Sirens blared, people screamed. Suddenly one pair of lights grew bigger and bigger, and then – a sickening crunch, a searing pain, and darkness.

“It’s okay, he’ll just be a little dizzy, just be a little dizzy, just be a little dizzy, just be a little dizzy…” Then man’s words faded in and out of my mind as I tried to regain control of my senses, but instead, lapsed into a coma.

“Would it be okay if I just had a glass of water?” I asked the employee, taking an unsteady step further into the room. “It’ll pass soon enough but it comes and goes with frightful pain.” Somehow I felt exposed, as though I were being exposed by the awkward scene. It’s okay, I told myself. No one knows anything.

I received the glass of water and returned to the moody outdoors, still struggling with what I identified as a debilitating mental weakness that was taking over me. It wasn’t just scaring me. It was eroding my concentration.

Beep! Beep!

The chime on my watch startled me. I glanced down, taking in the message. Two red letters flashed briefly.

GO

I paused, pulling my cell phone out of my right pocket. I swiped the screen up, studying the map there. Quickly locating the red dot, I shut down the phone and placed it in my jacket pocket. Then, as I pretended to fumble inside the pocket, I snapped it in half and inconspicuously dumped the pieces into a trash can. That done, I scanned the area in front of me.

It took me three seconds to locate the mark. He was just exiting a building with his secretary and crossing the street to his boarding house. The time was 8:15. Clearly the Mark was a precise man; his schedule suggested that his conference broke at 8:10, and brunch was served at 8:20. I had been told – quite accurately – that he would not eat with the other politicians but would retire.

In his rooms.

Precision could be a powerful political weapon, but in this case, it was a very damaging weakness. He would regret the fact that his movements were so easily predicted – assuming he had time to process what was happening before I emptied my Welrod into his skull.

I was an assassin, and assassins are always one step ahead.

The only problem was that I was currently one step behind. Those foolish delays had thrown me out of loop, but the instant those two letters had flashed on my screen something had shifted into place inside my brain. I was now a ruthless killer, and even though I was not where I needed to be, I knew with defiant certainty that I would be there to complete my mission at 8:20 precisely, and Evan Hawk … No, the Mark – would never finish his foolish prayers.

I slipped quietly down an alley, entering the first door on my left. It creaked ominously, but I ignored it, utter confident. So what if someone heard me? So what if they saw me? My identity was safe, and the luggage in my backpack anonymous. Nothing would come between me and my objective now.

I ascended a dank set of stairs, which ended in a small landing with a narrow door. Ignoring it, I continued up the second set of stairs. It too finished with a similar landing, but I still proceeded, moving with a certainty validated by hours upon hours upon hours of research.

I knew this place better than any man alive. And if that wasn’t the case, and someone else knew the passages of St. James Street well enough to interrupt my business? Well, I never said I knew the place better than the dead.

This flight of steps ended in an identical landing to the other two. But this time, I moved towards the door.

It was all well and good to enter the building careless of who saw me, but now entering a room it became imperative that I remained quiet. No amount of research could tell me whether or not someone was waiting behind that door. It could tell me what the chances were – even give me a certain confidence – but in this particular scenario I only had one line of information to go on.

“As far as we know, that room is normally empty.” That’s what I had been told.
That’s what he had said before sending me off to deal with whatever I would find.

Was I upset?

Not at all.

I was a skilled assassin, a master in the game of life and death. Not only had I already drawn the curtains on a dozen notable figures before now, but I had also handled much, much, more vulnerable situations than this one. It was a measure of trust and a compliment to my abilities that he had not seen the lack of information regarding my entrance point to be significant. I wasn’t concerned; he wasn’t concerned.

But I was concerned. Inevitably, it seemed, on this particular day, I would lose my cool at the wrong moment. A little voice in the back of my head was blaring sirens. So much had come up already on this mission; call it a sixth sense or just pure pessimism, but I was becoming increasingly aware that I was tip-toeing towards the brink of disaster. I paused, hand hovering over the little steel doorknob, listening to the sound of my heart beating its lifeblood throughout my body.

Life. Life meant power. Blood gives you strength. Strength to do with it as you will. But Death? No one has power over life but death. And to have power over death is to be god.

My fingers touched the doorknob.

But what if there actually was a superior Being who really did control life and death? I smiled. I had often dreamed about the day I would commit my last murder and prove myself sovereign over it all. Was that why I was here? Was that the reason why I continued to kill – an obsession with the power it lent me? Oh yes. Beyond all doubt.

“I know you can do it. But why should I trust that you will?” he had asked me, the expression on his face making it obvious he found the question to be an intelligent one.

“That choice is up to you,” I told him.

“The decision to trust you or make you trustable?” There it was, out on the table. The question of what it would take for me to kill one more time. He was like all the rest, assuming that money was the only reason why I killed. Sure, if my services were wanted then he would have to pay a hefty sum. But no. There was more, so very much more.

Oh, an entire world more.

I opened the door. It swung back easily, and I stepped softly into room. The lights were off and none of the windows were open, but it was easy enough to see in the musty interior. Easy enough for me to tell that I was in the storage of an apartment room, and one belonging to a fairly rich individual as well.

That much could be taken for granted; no one who didn’t have a substantial bank account would be living on this street, and certainly not in this building, which was owned by the Royal Bank. But it was also evident by what I saw as I cautiously opened the door that led to the rest of the apartment. A desk, composed of elaborately crafted wood and accented with marble. A lamp, plated with gold. A fireplace, set with engraved stone. All of this confirmed that I had indeed entered the correct suite. This is where I
would find the Mark.

I hated knowing the name or any personal details about my targets, but this time I had been unable to avoid a few details. His name was Evan Mark, and he was a rapidly rising Parliament member. He was of a Christian persuasion, one which had upset quite of few people over the last several years. He was the target of the media’s sharpest barbs, and very unpopular among his peers. I myself knew rather personally the lengths to which his enemies would go to remove him from the nation’s attention – made necessary because he owned quite a large following among the conservatives. If my sources were accurate as they had been so far, I would find him in his bedroom, on his knees, in prayer, as was his custom at this time of day.

What a foolish way to die.

I advanced slowly through the apartment, scanning every foot of space twice before daring to move. As I did, I was struck by how pervasive the man’s religion was. Verses hung on walls and decorated plaques. An entire shelf was dedicated to Biblical topics, and what’s more, there wasn’t a single law book I could see in the place.

Interest piqued, I moved towards one of the shelves, unable to restrain my curiosity about this Evan Hawk. As I did so, my foot caught on a rug, and I began to pitch forward. Reacting instinctively, I grabbed for the shelf, the fingers of my right hand landing on a book’s spine. I leaned into it, aware that were I to allow my natural reaction of pulling on the first thing my fingers touched would result in utter catastrophe. The bookshelf swayed slightly in response, but held. I steadied myself cautiously, looking to see what book had just potentially saved my life.

The Death of Ivan Illyich.

The world spun around me. I could not believe what was happening. Again, images whirred through my mind. Voices screamed. Guns went off. Suddenly very angry, I lowered myself to a crouch, whipping the bag off my back silently opening it. I removed the Welrod and reached farther into the bag. My fingers brushed the cold, round bullets. I paused, hesitating for the slightest second. Then, resolved, I selected only one of the fifteen.

I did not put the bag back on my back; I had made my decision.

Leaving it, I advanced stealthily, but with more of a purpose than before. Before I tempted myself to be distracted; now I left no room for any thought but one, and that was to complete my mission.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard it. A low, mumbling sound, it came to me from the other side of the apartment. Peering around the corner, I could see that the lights were on. A door was closed. That door — I knew instinctively — was the bedroom door, and the voice I heard on the other side was Evan Mark’s voice. I recalled the floorplan of the apartment, trying to pinpoint where exactly he would be inside the bedroom. It was a lost cause; voices were notorious for bouncing off of walls and creating illusions of direction. I could make an educated guess as to where the target would be awaiting his fate, but it would be only that – a guess.

I inched forward, all my nerves tense and my senses on high alert. I could hear the beating of my heart, feel the expansion and compression of my lungs. In my ears the sound of my feet pressing into the soft carpet was a gust of wind in wide open field. I was second guessing myself, consumed by the foreign emotions of the last hour. But I was a professional, and professionals never, ever, let their hearts rule their mind.

The AC in the apartment shut off. I hadn’t even noticed it was on, but now the entire suite was plunged into palpable quiet. Still, I advanced.

I was focused on the mission. Nothing could come between me and success now.

On the other side of the door, Evan’s voice seemed to rise and fall, and I paused, listening. “Be with… strengthen, to guide… Your church… grace…” It sunk to a murmur once more, but now a waited, refusing to move forward.

A few seconds, then it rose again; “…and turn the hearts of the men you have appointed to guide this nation…” I took two steps forward, pausing as his voice fell again. “… as you were in the lives of the kings of Egypt and Babylon…”

Another step. “…Yourself to be known in the emptiness of their…”

Three steps.

My finger brushed against the doorknob. It was locked. Silently, I cursed again. Whoever this God was that this man was praying to, He certainly wasn’t making my job any easier. I now had to options; I could force the door and finish the job, or I could attempt to open it silently and kill the man before he was aware of my presence. Either way I was guaranteed success. Bar Evan waiting for me with a fully automatic machine gun, the first option would be quickest, and I was confident that I would be far away
before anyone discovered what had happened.

And yet… it was less professional. Maybe it was my pride that demanded otherwise – maybe it was something else, but it felt wrong to rush death upon this saint – almost as though he would thank me for a silent, fearless death. Death is death. What does it matter? For a moment I was about to force the door. But if there was one thing I had learned throughout my illustrious career of killing, it was to trust my instinct. I reached up, fingering my collar, and gently kneeled at the door. I set the Welrod on the
floor cautiously. I needed both hands to remove the ultra-sharp edge that was sown into my collar. I ripped the seam open, and tilted my head down to slide out the blade. It fell faster than I expected, and as I tried to catch it I cut my little finger. I stared blankly at the blood. That, I knew, would require stiches, but that was the least of my concerns. I yanked my cuff down, unbuttoned it, and wrapped it as well as I could. I was unable to prevent one pristine ball of life rolling off my fingertip and splashing onto the floor.

If I hadn’t been committed before, I was now. I had left incontrovertible evidence that I had been here; DNA evidence. Now there was no good reason for me to not just force the door. In fact, there were a lot of very good reasons to do just that, and they were piling up. Again, something stopped me.

I gently picked up the razor, inserting it where the metal of the doorknob met the wood of the door. It sliced through the wood as easily again as it had my flesh. I wiggled it in, pondering for perhaps the thousandth time in my career at the stupidity of mankind. The lock was of a new design that had exploded around England. Intended for interior use, it was not complex, but it featured new mechanics which made it attractive. Why? I had no idea. My job was simply to discover its weakness, and that is exactly what I had done.

I continued to push the razor up and into the door behind the knob, judging distance. Then, I pushed the exposed end up, forcing the blade within the door to cut downward. I heard the slight pop as the cord which was at the center of the locking contraption snapped, and I couldn’t stop the smile from breaking across my face. It was so foolish, really. Whoever designed the lock was about to face a massive lawsuit.

Then again, with any other assassin he would probably have been safe from exposure. Even I had struggled to discover the lock’s innate weakness. For a moment I considered removing the blade from the door, but then I remembered that drop of blood. What did it matter, I thought. I would be long gone before I was identified as the murderer. I was about to test the knob when I heard it.

Or rather, didn’t hear it.

Evan Hawk had stopped talking.

There could have been any number of reasons why, but there was one which stood out in my mind. He’s done, and I’m finished. If he opened that door… I snatched up the Welrod from the carpet, pointing directly at the spot on the door where I estimated his left chest would be, and waited. A second passed. Then five. Then ten. A full minute. Still, I remained motionless, my barrel trained on that one spot, a thousand thoughts whirring through my head, foremost among them concern that somehow, Mr. Hawk had been alerted to my presence.

I glanced over my shoulder quickly, scanning for security cameras. Of course I had known there would be some, but I had been told they would be deactivated. I spotted one nestled in a corner behind me, and quickly averted my eyes, aware that to let my face show would be a major gaff. Another five minutes of tense silence followed, in which neither I nor – apparently – Evan Hawk breathed. It was a stalemate. More like a deadlock, I thought.

And then, slowly and trembling, Evan spoke. His voice was weak and strained, and I had to lean my ear towards the door to hear it.

“Father, there are many who hate me.”

The air in the room was suddenly very heavy. Was he talking to me? And then, suddenly, I realized; the old fool was still praying! Slowly, I began to turn the doorknob.

“There are many who desire to bring dishonor upon my family.”

It was half turned – clearly he was not facing the door or he would’ve noticed by now.

“Lord, they need Your protection. Be with them while I am away. Protect them from our enemies.”

Was he actually praying for the safety of his family while an assassin crouched outside his door?

The image hit me like a bolt of lightning. My father, kneeling at my bedside, praying for our safety while he was gone. He had done it again the next morning before boarding the infamous Flight 207, and I had never seen him again. Why had I forgotten?

I had chosen to forget. All relationships did was tie you down, and I had cut all those strings long ago.

I opened the door.

There he was, kneeling at his window, completely unaware; completely absorbed in useless prayer for the protection of his family while his own death was inside the door. What a weak way to die. It would be best for me to finish this here and now.

Lifting the gun, I trained it on the back of his skull. My hand was strong, and my aim level. I breathed in, moving my index finder to the tip of the trigger. Slowly, I began to apply pressure.

As I did, the walls seemed to close on me. My vision blurred and my breathing was all of a sudden heavy and labored. All the thoughts I had attempted to lock up in the back of my mind flooded in; a Niagara of pain, anger, fear, and depression. Emotions I hadn’t felt in years or even know existed jettisoned like geysers out of their cages and into full light. I saw stars. I began to sway – to lose balance even from my kneeling position. Voices screamed from the back of my brain, all begging for my attention but I could not make out any over another. I could not handle it. All those years when I had considered myself strong – brazenly indifferent, oblivious to the price of death – all those years I had simply been pushing it farther and farther back in my mind. It was not gone; no, not at all, it was stronger than ever, and I was the weak one.

Why don’t I just end it now?

Why not?

The barrel of the Welrod turned slowly until I could see straight into it. There was a gleam of something shiny in there. It was my bullet. Ironically, the one bright spot in that dark tunnel.

Once more, my finger touched the trigger, and I began to squeeze. I had been expecting a sense of peace, some sort of settlement to come at the end. As if killing myself would somehow justify all the others I had killed. None came.

But surely, once I pressed that trigger…

If there is no God.

But what if there is?

What if Evan is the wise one, and I am the fool?

Slowly, I raised my eyes towards the man I had come to kill. Our eyes met in the reflection of the window, and held for what felt like an eternity. I willed myself to pull the trigger, but I found that I could not. There was something nameless in his eyes. It wasn’t fear, but a deep, unfathomable sadness. Slowly, his lips began to move.

“God.” A long pause, while we both remained motionless. “Please return to this man his life.”

I did nothing. I could do nothing. I had lost control of the situation – and, I feared, of very much more. My finger was still resting on the trigger, but I could not move them.

Have I really lost my life? I gazed into the man’s eyes, and saw the answers there. I had indeed lost my life. I hadn’t pulled the trigger now, but I had lost my life the first time I had; a long fifteen years ago. I had all the money I could want. I was successful. I was healthy. But the man across from me had so much more. He had a family. Friends. Honest income. Clean conscience. A God who cared for him.

Evan had peace. And now, in a moment where he had come millimeters of pressure away from losing it all… he was praying for me? For the man who had come to kill him? Why not let me die? Why not let me have what I deserved for the living death I had chosen? I did not deserve to live.

His hand was on the gun, gently pushing it down, and away from my own skull. He did not try to take it from me. I was no longer surprised. I opened my mouth to speak, to condemn this man, to tell him to kill me – to end my useless life, since I could not myself.

But instead, one word came out.

“Why?”

He told me why. And that’s why I’m still alive today.

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